


Moonshine

by Ickleroonilwazlib



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drunky drunky, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:18:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ickleroonilwazlib/pseuds/Ickleroonilwazlib
Summary: Stop, wait a minute, fill my cup, pour some liquor in it.





	Moonshine

She’s never heard him laugh like this before. Was he giggling? No, his voice was too deep for a giggle but he was definitely chuckling. _Was there a goddamn difference?_ The thought makes her laugh, the burst of air exploding against his lips and it sent them both into fits again.

Gods he smelled good. The world was spinning in the most delicious ways, with only his large hands keeping her steady, the taste of liquor sharp on his lips—or maybe it was on hers. Her hands were flurries of movements, crawling underneath his shirt, following the lines of muscles up and down his stomach, then to his sides where she swore he was ticklish though he would deny it until his dying breath. There were noises of festivities around them, growing farther and farther away as they stumbled to a secluded spot, their home too far away for their current needs. There was a sense of lightness between them that came too rarely so Octavia would do her damnest to enjoy it to the fullest.

Lincoln pushes her against the bark of a tree, disconnecting from her lips for a few seconds as he fumbles in the dark for a safe perch. She doesn’t help his cause in the slightest; her hands busy themselves with the belt, throwing it carelessly to the side as her lips capture the skin of his neck, licking the line of bristly hair traveling down to his Adam’s apple. With a groan too delicious for him to hold, he finally gives up, having to go on hope that neither are too drunk to fall on their asses when their minds are too busy with other pleasurable things. Like the feel of her breasts against his chest. Or the way her hand is now rubbing against the front of his pants, desperation falling from her lips in the form of shaky breaths.

Octavia’s head is reeling. He has the most amazing way of kissing a trail down her shoulder, deviating down the slope of her chest, and with a grunt he lifts her in his arms to continue his exploration. Her head tilts back and hits the tree, the world spinning still, but less pleasurable now. In fact, there’s nothing good about this feeling, especially since it’s traveled down her stomach and _oh god, not now please not when Lincoln is hard and throbbing against her thigh_.

She slaps his shoulder in warning and he instantly lets her go, his face slack with desire but quickly lining with worry. Octavia only has a few seconds to turn away behind the tree before she lets go of the entirety of her meal in a few heaves. She hears Lincoln rustling behind her and being the absolute angel that he is, he lifts her hair in a makeshift ponytail as she continues to vomit. When she’s done and her throat is burning something awful, she sobs and punches the tree.

“I just wanted some sex.”

She’s absolutely inconsolable now, tears making rivulets down her face and Lincoln has to steady himself as to not laugh. Both are still extremely drunk after all.

“We can still do it later,” he uses the ends of his long-sleeved shirt to wipe away the corners of her mouth, leading her away from the mess. She’s blowing in the wind, like a frail leaf and again Lincoln holds back laughter. Especially since she’s still mumbling under her breath.

“We haven’t done it in weeks,” she glares at him like it’s his fault. “Weeks,” she repeats.

“I know—”

“I had to touch myself two days ago, in that stupid room full of people—” she pauses and hiccups, throwing a heavy hand against his chest to get his attention as if she didn’t have it already, “—and why did Clarke have to make us all sleep in that common area anyway? She’s so stupid.”

His arm around her waist secures her from falling but it’s quite a task, especially since she’s really getting into her one-sided conversation. He’s also had quite a bit of moonshine himself and can’t help but be distracted by the light of her eyes. He starts to tell her just how pretty he thinks she is but small hands have gathered the fabric of his collar and yanked him to her level with surprising force.

“I saw you flirting with that little warrior princess yesterday, ya bastard,” she’s glaring at him but her braids have come loose and she doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as she usually does. They stumble away from the forest and into the outer edge of the village. The sound of music is faintly audible again.

“I did no such thing,” he immediately slurs because it has never entered his mind to entertain the thought of being with anyone else but Octavia. He’s starting to feel a bit funny himself and picks up the pace. Octavia stops him, sidestepping him in a very skilled move, especially being so drunk. Like a child, she lifts her arms and makes a bobbing motion with her body.

“Carry me.” Lincoln stares at her.

“Did you hear me?” he asks, wanting to make sure she understood that he wasn’t being untrue to her. It was very important to him at the moment.

“Yeah,” she responds offhandedly, then does the same motion again. He sighs as if it’s the most tiring thing on earth and offers his back to her. With a running start, she leaps on his back and nearly sends him headfirst into the ground. Silently, they make their way into the village, other couples unabashedly making out by the fire, some warriors sparring (if it could be called that in their drunken state) and still others were continuing to drink and eat. She pulls his ear.

“You better not have been.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You better.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know.”

She snorts and nuzzles his neck. It’s a pleasant feeling but she’s getting quite heavy and their home isn’t getting any closer. His stomach is doing a funny dance, the taste of bile is rising up, and he all but throws her off as his stomach decides to join in the fun and hurls its contents to the ground.

“I’ll hold your hair,” Lincoln hears her drawl, drawing into her hand his imaginary hair and if his stomach wasn’t busy regurgitating his last meal, he’d have laughed. She helps him stumble those last few feet to their home and collapse against the door. She feels like shit but she also feels fantastic. She wouldn’t have anyone but Lincoln hold her hair when she vomited, her hazy brain realizes, and she hopes it’s the same for him.

“I love you,” she mutters, her head dropping on his shoulder. They both stink now. His head is a heavy weight on hers.

“I love you.”

Octavia smiles.

“You better.”


End file.
